


Wasted Time

by alienor_woods



Category: Penryn & The End of Days
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:14:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienor_woods/pseuds/alienor_woods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Months after re-taking Alcatraz, Raffe has a set of visitors that has him re-evaluating how he views his relationship with Penryn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wasted Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunnydaisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnydaisy/gifts).



> Overdue birthday fic for Sunny Daisy who wanted Penryn/Raffe sex in a bad way after that fireplace scene in World After.

Even when the sun shines and the gulls cry out, Alcatraz stays gloomy. I tilt my head and peer up at it from the rocky shore, frowning right back at the low, squat building atop the island. Raffe’s faction has kept control of the old prison through the spring and summer since it’s pretty hard to sneak up on an island, even in the heaviest morning fog.

 

Speaking of Raffe:  I haven’t heard from him since our esteemed visitors left a little while ago. _Some higher ups in the chain of command, administratively, at least_ , he’d said, who are supportive of his bid for Messenger. I’d been eating my sandwich on the rocks when they’d left all at once, like a flock of birds taking off into the midday sky. He usually comes and finds me after his meetings, tired of speaking of politics and war and wanting to unwind with slow kisses and warm hands under my shirt.

 

_Nothing more_ , he always says, even as his fingers curl against my skin. _It’s forbidden_. But he’d not resisted the night I scooted closer in his lap and ended up pressed against the hard line of his cock under his sweatpants. His pupils blew wide when I’d rolled my hips, and he hissed my name when I’d closed my eyes and told him to _just—hold still_. But he hadn’t kept still—not completely. His hands had clutched at my thighs and waist and his mouth had met mine in one untidy, breathless kiss after another while we’d rocked our bodies against each other. He likes to pretend that he hadn’t helped me, hadn’t tightened his grip to drag my hips over his when a tremor had made them stutter, hadn’t thrust up against me too, as though I hadn’t felt the flex of his thighs under mine.

 

Raffe doesn’t ever talk about that night. So I’m left to reminisce about the strong circle of his arms around my shaking back and the low groan he let out against my ear. He never lets it get that far anymore. He pulls back, always, when my breathing (or his) gets too heavy. I push my luck and take slow, even inhales so that he can forget for half a minute that he’s an archangel and let himself unhook my bra, or press his thigh upward between mine. _That_ will get a sharp gasp from me, but it’s always worth it.

 

His door is closed, which is strange for him. With as quiet as this portion of the prison is, he’s always joked that there’s no need to knock because he can hear visitors coming from all the way down the hall. Still, I rap my knuckles lightly against the wood and call out his name, and he replies with a gruff, “It’s open.”

 

“It’s closed, actually,” I reply when I slip inside, but Raffe responds with only a twitch of his lips from his spot in his armchair. He’s closed all of the blinds, keeping the room dim save for the floorlamp in the corner. I’ve always thought he looks good in low light, all dark and brooding and everything girls are conditioned to think of guys from the first YA novel we pick up. The white wings spread out over the arms of the chair are just the pièce de résistance to the image.

 

“Close it again, then,” he says, and lifts a tumbler of amber liquid to his lips. There’s an open bottle of scotch on his desk on the other side of the room, and I arch a brow at him as I push the door closed with my fingertips. He follows my line of vision and shrugs. “I’m only on my second. Come here.”

 

He sets the glass on the floor and holds out his hands. They’re warm in mine, and he scoots forward and tugs me between his knees. “Rough meeting?” I ask, sliding my hands into his hair when he drops my hands to rest his palms on the backs of my bare thighs.

 

Raffe is quiet for a long moment, leaning into my hands and running his fingers up and down my legs in slow, firm strokes. “It was all a lie,” he finally says, his voice sounding amazed if not for the bitterness that cut through it. “All of it.”

 

“What was?”

 

He tugs me a touch closer and nuzzles his nose into the soft cotton that covers my belly. I start a bit in surprise, but maybe the scotch has loosened him up a touch. Lord knows he needs it more than every now and then. “The Watchers, the Nephelim…They didn’t break God’s law. Uriel and the others, they just _hated_ humans. They thought the Watchers were sullying themselves for taking human wives and punished them out of—out of prejudice. Nothing more, nothing less.”

 

My heart clenches in pity and sorrow and I smooth my palms over Raffe’s hair. “Oh, Raffe,” I breathe, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Oh, Raffe. I’m so, so sorry. All these centuries—”

 

He surges upwards and cuts me off with a kiss. It’s deep and almost harsh, and he groans into my mouth like he’s just had the first taste of chocolate after forty days of Lent. “I’ve been thinking about what I did all afternoon. I don’t want to think about it anymore, Penryn.” His thumbs slip beneath the hem of my shirt and lift it, and then he presses a kiss right below my navel.

 

The warm-dry of Raffe’s closed lips gives way to the wetness of his tongue as it makes a bold swipe against my skin. Heat surges between my legs and I move my hands to his shoulders to brace myself. Under my fingers, his muscles flex minutely, but I barely register it because he kisses his way to my navel and dips his tongue into the little hollow. “Oh my god,” I breathe, my head lolling back, and Raffe lets out a chuckle.

 

“My boss has nothing to do with this,” he tells me, dropping a hand from my waist to skim up the inside of my thigh. Even in the dim light, I can see how wide his pupils are blown and how his eyelashes flutter as my skin gets smoother the higher his fingertips trail. When they brush against my damp underwear, tentative at first, watching my face, and then again, with enough firmness that my knees quiver, he half-sighs, half-moans and swirls his tongue around my navel again. “At least now I know that he doesn’t have anything to do with _this_. We’ve wasted so much time, Penryn.”

 

His fingers slip under the crotch of my underwear as he says the last and I gasp his name, drawing out the middle vowel. He’s only touched me through layers of clothes there and the feeling is sharp and new and _good_. “I’ve been saying the same for months, I’ll have you know.” I’m trying for chastisement or teasing, but it just comes out breathy and tight.

 

“I should have listened,” he agrees, nudging me backwards so that he can stand up. My skirt bunches over his wrist, but Raffe doesn’t seem to mind. His fingers keep slipping and sliding over my slick folds, only the slightest bit jerky because of the tight confines of my underwear. Behind his shoulders, his wings shift and fold up against his back, and he looks like a regular guy again. Sometimes, I forget that we spent time on the move together, carrying his wings like a backpack all those months ago. That was back when he was just Raffe, some angel I’d run across in the street that I’d needed to take me to my sister and not Raphael, the Wrath of God, Archangel of Heaven, and frontrunner for Messenger of God.

 

Lids sliding shut, he leans in to kiss me. He’s insistent, nearly desperate, sucking on my tongue and nipping my lower lip until I’m panting and shaking over the hand still working in my underwear. Finally, he pulls his hand free and sucks his fingers into his mouth, hollowing out his cheeks as he slides each digit from his lips. “D’you know how long I’ve wondered how you taste?” He murmurs, lowering his mouth to mine again and his hands to my ass. “Ever since the beach house. I thought you might drop that towel and—it’s just another type of kiss, isn’t it?”

 

I run the flats of my palms down his chest and pause to flick my thumbs over his nipples. That’s the good part of having wings, from my perspective at least. One less piece of clothing for me to deal with during our make-out sessions. “I kept waiting for you to kiss me then,” I say against his greedy mouth, squeezing his sides. “But you never did. Just made fun of my clothes.”

 

“They _were_ ridiculous.” He tugs on my hair, sharp enough to send a jolt of warmth to my center, and laps at the hinge of my jaw while my fingers dance along the waistband of his pants. Just as I circle them to the button under his navel, he catches my hands, laces our fingers together, and wraps them behind my back. It sends my body in an arch against his; my soft breasts and sloping tummy pressed against the hard planes of his chest and abs. Raffe can’t seem to get enough of kissing my mouth, my jaw, my neck, as if he’s making up for all of the time that he’s held back.

 

He frog-walks me back, the hard length of him pressing against my belly, until my knees hit the frame of his bed and my momentum sends me onto my ass. The mattress creaks as I shift; he might be an Archangel, but he’s limited to what Alcatraz had when we took it just like the rest of us. It’s dimmer over on this side of the room, but just enough light to catch the gleam in his eyes before he drops to sit on his heels and slide his hands up under my skirt to hook his fingers in the waistband of my underwear.

 

His greediness isn’t limited to my mouth, it seems. He shoulders my knees apart and pushes my skirt out of his way as his tongue laves the length of my cunt and his lips catch my clit. I slap one hand over my mouth to stifle a shout and fist the hair at his nape with the other. _He needs a haircut_ , I think, before he slides two fingers into me and chases all other coherent thoughts out of my head.

 

I’m too hot now, and I get only get hotter when Raffe starts to hum against my slick flesh, almost like he’s answering my moans of his name. Twisting and turning, I wrench my tank over my head and arch my back to unhook my bra, tossing it somewhere behind my head. I hear the hooks or eyes clink against the tile somewhere, but Raffe has tugged my hips over the edge of the bed and shifted my thighs to his shoulders, circling the little bundle of super-awake-and-aware nerves between my legs with a persistent tongue.

 

“ _Oh_ , right there, right there.” He lifts his eyes to meet mine and gives me a wink, and I let out a breathless laugh that breaks off when he does, in fact, follow my instructions. A warm palm covers one of my breasts and I top it with my own, reminding him how I like to be touched. Raffe’s much more used to the top half of my body, but he’s rarely ventured underneath my bra. And this isn’t the first guy to have his face between my legs but he’s definitely the _best_.

 

( _Oh_ , I’d exclaimed the first time I’d felt his erection poke into my hip. It was easy to lose track of time on the beach in the summertime, when the sun tracked oh-so-slowly across the sky. I shouldn’t have been surprised—my shirt had been rucked up to my breasts for a while then and Raffe’s lips had been well-acquainted with the swell of my cleavage peeking over my V-neck—but it was still, well, surprising. _I mean, I **knew**_ , I’d stuttered. _But—do angels have children? Or does it only happen with—with humans?_ Raffe had chuckled and nudged my nose with his. _We don’t have children like humans do. But we sure love to try._ )

 

I whine and pant and he hums against me again, pulling me closer to his mouth by my hips, and I come with a strangled shout, back bowing and thighs squeezing around his ears. Because he keeps lapping at me gently, my orgasm rides for a beat or two more, my back frozen in an arch and breath caught in my throat until it subsides and I sink onto his mattress with a groan.

 

“Gorgeous,” Raffe says, voice filled with awe. “God knew what he was doing when he made women.” He presses wet kisses to the insides of my thighs while I shiver on the blankets, distractedly petting his smooth hair. When I push myself back to sitting, his lips taste salty and musky, but not bad at all. (Thank god for showers and general cleanliness.)

 

His hands card through my hair, cup my neck and stroke my shoulders. Some of his fervor seems to have died down, because he’s gentler now, more searching. When my fingers feel nimble again, I find the button of his pants and pop it open. He grunts, stomach rolling under my fingers, but helps me push his pants and boxers down his legs. Our fingers tangle and catch against each other in the low light, and we snicker softly. I can tell that he doesn’t expect my mouth on him when he stands back up, though. He’s warm and firm on my tongue and he chokes out my name, hands jerking at his sides.

 

I meet his eyes and pull back. “You can touch my hair, but the minute you push on my head, I’m done,” I tell him with an arched brow. His mouth is open, his jaw and cheeks slack as he stares down at me and nods wordlessly, and I hold back my laugh. Poor Raffe probably wouldn’t take it well.

 

It’s like riding a bike, really, and his groans and sighs guide my mouth and hand. He’s never let me put my hands under his pants, but it seems like angels are more similar human boys than they’d probably like to admit. Every now and then, I peek upwards to see him watching me, eyes glittering in the darkness, nearly black, and his dark hair falling forward his brow in a tousled nest. Attractive as he is in the light of day, as it were, I think I prefer him when we’re alone like this, when he stares at me like he wants to devour me.

 

I finish with a long lick up the underside of his length, and he _growls_ at the end, fists my hair and kisses me fiercely, having no care that his cock was just in my mouth. “Hold on,” he murmurs against my mouth, and leaves me to walk to his desk, buck-naked but for his wings covering his back and looping around to brush his calves. He digs in the drawer and comes back with a foil packet. “This is—protection, you humans call it?”

 

“Yes.” I take the packet, tear it, and pull the condom out.

 

“Queer name,” he says and lets his head loll back as I slide the latex down his shaft. Then he’s bending down and catching me under my thighs and hauling me backwards across the bed, pulling my knees up alongside his sides. We’re skin against skin, hot and damp against each other, and I squeeze him tightly with my legs when he tries to shift to the side. His tongue laps at my pulse point and his hands cup and mold my breasts until I’m sighing into his hair and dragging my nails across his shoulders.

 

“Protects us from babies,” I tell him, arching my neck as he presses hot kisses up the line of my neck. He nips my chin with a chuckle, and then reaches down to touch my center.

 

I’m still slick from my peak earlier and from having my mouth on him only moments before, and he sighs my name against my collarbone. I have this moment of blaring clarity, where I realize that Raffe and I are about to have _sex_ —we’re about to do the very thing he’d sworn he’d never do with me, lest he Fall. So I lean down and guide his mouth to mine, _I_ kiss _him_ now, _I_ reach between us to guide him into me. I don’t want him to have any regrets about this, to ever think that he pushed me beyond my boundaries just because he couldn’t hold his need for me back anymore.

 

He groans the whole way in, a bass vibration that I feel in my bones and my heart and my lungs and I gasp once he’s deep home. “Penryn,” he chokes against my ear, fingers clutching my shoulders, and I wrap my arms under his and grab onto his shoulders to hold him close to me.

 

_It’s alright_ and _you can move now_ both seem patronizing and pushy in equal measure, so I settle on “Please, Raffe” while I roll my hips upwards. He starts to move, pressing his face into my neck when his hips start to pick up speed. His breath is steamy on my skin, his hair silky against my cheek, and I close my eyes to relish the push and pull of his cock between my legs.

 

Our skin turns slick and my thighs can’t keep purchase on his hips any more, so I let them fall open and he lifts his head to press his mouth to mine. It’s messy and sloppy, teeth clinking and tongues catching on sharp enamel, but it’s _Raffe_ and it’s _good_. He keeps making these questioning hums from deep in his throat and I think it’s my favorite new Raffe sound. So I just keep sighing _yeah_ and _uh huh_ and _like that_ and he answers with half-words of his own—the least coherent and most satisfying conversation I’ve ever had during sex.

 

“I’m going to—“ he breathes, taking a hand from my shoulder and running it down to my hip and across my belly.

 

I’m not going to come again though, I’m not even close even though it feels _so_ good, so I pull his hand away and lace my fingers through his. “Stay inside me, Raffe.” I pull our hands above my head and he bears me down onto his thin, creaky mattress, snagging my lower lip with his teeth.

 

His hips snap down against mine four, five, six more times and then he surges forward with enough force from his legs to move us up the mattress a good three or four inches. The flutter of his lashes against his cheeks and the quiver of his whole body as he comes are beautiful, like the rest of him. Even his wings flop down over me in the end, spreading wide across the width of the bed and dragging down to the floor. They’re cool, though, so I don’t mind in the slightest.

 

For a time, we lay there—I doze off, I think, but with the blinds drawn and only a single soft light on, I can’t tell how much time has passed. But I jerk back to awareness when Raffe draws his wings back in and rolls to his side, bringing me with him. I hook a leg over his hip and he tucks my head under his chin.

 

“Think of how long we could have been doing that,” I murmur, poking his chest and turning it into a softly-drawn infinity sign, looping around his nipple over and over until it pebbles.

 

His lips brush against my damp hairline and his hand sweeps down to settle on my bare hip. “We have a lot of time to make up for then.”

 

I think he’s joking in that moment, but after dinner, he pulls me astride his lap and takes me that way, whispering in my ear the whole time about how he’d wanted to do exactly _this_ that night I’d gotten myself off like a middle schooler in his lap. And the next morning, he sneaks into my room to lie behind me and roll into me with a hand on my breast and his lips at the nape of my neck, slow and steady like low tide, and I realize he’s not joking.

 

(Not like I’d ever complain.)


End file.
